


In which Dr. John H Watson loses 2 bets

by CaptainDog



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-07
Updated: 2011-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-27 00:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainDog/pseuds/CaptainDog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knew right away that he shouldn't have taken the bet. It was stupid in the first place, and he felt the fool for having gone along with it. And now he felt as though he would do anything to wipe that horrible smile off of Anderson's face. Why would he even consider making a bet with the bastard? Why would he humour him like that? Well, so long as Sherlock didn't know, he would get through this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which Dr. John H Watson loses 2 bets

**Author's Note:**

> As this was one of the first smut fics I ever wrote (oh, the irony), it seems vaguely appropriate that it's my first post here. I get better, I promise. Also I actually don't hate Anderson that much.

John knew right away that he shouldn't have taken the bet. It was stupid in the first place, and he felt the fool for having gone along with it. And now he felt as though he would do anything to wipe that horrible smile off of Anderson's face. Why would he even consider making a bet with the bastard? Why would he humour him like that? Well, so long as Sherlock didn't know, he would get through this.

  
It had been at a crime scene that Anderson had begun the argument. Sherlock was bending over the body of a teenage girl, examining the tag on her shirt. John stood back, not wanting to interfere with his thought process. Anderson watched as well, obviously itching to make a derisive remark. John almost turned to tell him to shut the hell up, even though he hadn't said anything yet. John wasn't in a particularly good mood. When Anderson did speak, John nearly hit him.  
“Disgusting, how fun he finds this, don't you think?”  
“You know what's disgusting, Anderson? Your face, so why don't you shut both of them?” Anderson looked affronted, but also a bit amused.  
“Oh yeah, you like him, don't you? Get all cosy in your little flat-share?” John felt himself reddening. Why, oh why was he letting this rile him up? It was only Anderson, he should be easy to ignore.  
“Even if what you're implying was true, Anderson, I doubt if it would be any of your fucking business.”  
“You just wait, Doctor. I've seen him on crime scenes more than you. He doesn't care about the people, not one bit. Unless of course they're dead.”  
“What are you implying, Anderson? That he's a necrophiliac? I hardly think that's the case.”  
“I'm implying that no matter how close you think you're getting to him, he'll never really see you as another person. He doesn't care about you, you know?”  
“Anderson, I don't think that that's for you to judge.” Anderson smirked at him.  
“You know how he left you behind in Brixton during the cabbie case? He'd do that again in a heartbeat.”  
“I've been working with him long enough to think that you are full of shit, Anderson. And you can-” John stopped talking because Sherlock had stood up.  
“Everybody get out, I need to think!” Anderson huffed and moved into the hallway of the suburban house.  
“Even you, John. I need as much silence as I can get.” John wasn't particularly hurt, but it did mean that he'd have to be basically alone with Anderson, who was smiling wickedly as he came into the hall.  
“Didn't want his trusted sidekick with him?”  
“Piss off, he wants silence.”  
“And to be alone with that body. I'll bet that he even forgets about you and leaves you here.”  
“You know what, Anderson? You're on. What's on the table?” Anderson looked a little taken aback by being called out in this way. Then his face spread into the most menacing grin that John had ever seen. He told John his terms.

Sherlock was in the room with the girl for a long time. John had seated himself in the living room with Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, and a few other officers. They heard a door swing open, Sherlock's voice call “Done! I'll text you later, Lestrade!”, and then the door to the house open and slam shut. John jumped to his feet. No way! Anderson laughed in delight. “You have a week from the end of this case to make good on your end of the bet, Doctor.” John scowled and jogged out, hoping that Sherlock would be waiting outside. He wasn't. John took a cab home.

John sat in front of his laptop, wishing that he had something else to help him stall. He'd finished writing up the case about the teenager. John was still having difficulty working out how the washing instructions of her shirt related to her boyfriend, who had killed her, but had managed to get enough details to post it to his blog. Now there was nothing to do but begin his punishment for assuming something about his flatmate. Fuck. He opened a new text document. Where did he even begin on this? He glanced over at Sherlock, who was lying on the sofa, presumably asleep or possibly deep in thought. John hoped that he stayed that way. He decided that the best way to go was to just start typing.  
It was a-  
Deletedeletedelete. Really, how did one start something like this? Maybe just pretend it's a journal entry for the blog? No, that wouldn't work. That would be hitting too close to home. And, given what he'd seen just glancing at Livejournal, Deviantart, and Urban Dictionary, he was NOT doing any research on this. And then he reminded himself; this didn't actually have to be good. It just had to be done. Well, that and meet the requirements that Anderson had given him. Bloody prat. Why did John have to be a man of his word? John started again.  
The flat at 221b-  
Deletedeletedelete. John groaned and rested his face in his hands. Did this thing have to have a plot? What the hell was his premise? It wasn't as if he could call someone for advice on this. He took a deep breath and began typing for a third time.  
Dr. John H Watson's flatmate is a strange man. He is prone to leave dead things in the refrigerator, but is also rarely seen without formal attire. He is a paradox, a mystery. He is also incredibly attractive...  
John swallowed and continued writing. He felt less and less uncomfortable the longer he sat there. He stopped typing only momentarily to save the document – he titled it 'fuck you anderson I am going to make you hurt'. He went back to writing his little story until he got to...the scene. John paused. How did one write these kinds of things? It wasn't as if he had a problem with porn, even gay porn, but writing it? Especially given his lead characters...  
“Considering where you're heading in this scene, I think the next appropriate sentence would involve the removal of clothes. Possibly more kissing.”  
John shrieked in a very undignified manner and jumped. He only just managed to stay in his chair.  
“When...when did you get up?” he choked.  
“Just before you wrote the bit about how my shirt falls over my chest. Good job, by the way. I've underestimated your powers of observation.” John tried several times to speak. Sherlock gave him a look somewhere between pity and amusement.  
“I...er...let me-”  
“Explain? Of course, but I already know that you aren't doing this willingly. I see what you've titled it.” Sherlock pointed at the upper left-hand corner of the screen. “What were you betting on?”  
“Er...well you, actually. We had a bet on whether...” John gulped. “...on whether you'd forget me at Daisy Brenan's house.”  
“Which side did you take?” Sherlock looked genuinely curious, which worried John somewhat.  
“Erm, that you wouldn't. Look, I don't really care either way. I really shouldn't have let Anderson egg me on like that, but I was having a really crap day and wasn't going to put up with his bollocks so I called him on it and may have...accidentally...made the bet.”  
“What would he have had to do had you won?”  
“Be nice to you for a month. No sarcasm, no backhanded comments, just generally polite.”  
“Well then, I think I owe you an apology.”  
John gaped at Sherlock. He hadn't known that Sherlock could apologise.  
“Well. It's fine. Really. Erm.” Sherlock chuckled.  
“I don't think Anderson would have lasted a whole month though, John. Not with Sally as a colleague. So, are you going to finish this up?” He gestured toward John's computer.  
“Er...maybe? I mean, I have to by Friday, but...”  
“But?”  
“Well, it's a bit awkward to write something like this if you're reading over my shoulder.”  
“I thought I might help. This seems entertaining.”  
“No. Just no.”  
“Why not? Don't believe that I could give you meaningful input?”  
John stared at Sherlock.  
“What exactly-”  
“What I mean, John, is that I am far more familiar with my body than you are.” Sherlock's voice was a low growl now. John was far beyond uneasy. “I could give you some insights. You did seem a bit stuck on the scene you were writing.”  
“Er, I think I'll pass, Sherlock...”  
“How about we make a bet, John? If I give you valuable information regarding your 'self-insert fan-fiction'...”  
Sherlock placed his hands on John's shoulders and leant down. He whispered his terms into John's ear. The doctor's cheeks turned scarlet and he stared at Sherlock.  
“Deal?” Sherlock asked in that deep, dangerous voice. They made eye contact and held it for a long time.  
“You're on.” whispered John.

 _Sherlock brought his lips to John's again, this time going deeper. Their tongues brushed and explored each other's mouths. John lifted his hands to run them up his flatmate's chest, stroke past his neck, and cradle the man's jaw. Sherlock curled his fingers through John's short, coarse hair. John moaned into Sherlock's mouth. He hadn't known that he wanted this, hadn't expected...all thoughts were cut short when Sherlock nipped at his lower lip. No, he really couldn't have any expectations of Sherlock Holmes, except that he would always be unexpected and brilliant. So brilliant.  
John dropped his hands to pull at Sherlock's shirt. He popped a few of the buttons in the process. Strong fingers released his hair and dropped to help him in the shirt's removal. Skin. John needed more skin. He growled as Sherlock pulled the jumper over his head; any moment away from that amazing mouth was a moment wasted in John's mind. He dived forward as soon as the meddlesome shirts were abandoned. His lips were met with cold air, however. Sherlock had dropped to his knees in a hot line of breath down John's abdomen. A shiver wracked his body.  
“Oh God, oh Sherlock...” Those impossible fingers sandwiched themselves between the waistband of his jeans and his heated skin. The sensation, so hot, was overwhelming, and he didn't even have his trousers off yet. He gripped the back of the chair behind him for support. His button popped open, followed by his zip.  
When Sherlock's mouth – oh God, his mouth – finally closed over the head of his cock, John cried out. He didn't have words for this. His knuckles were turning white on the back of the chair. When Sherlock started to move, all swirling tongue and sucked-in cheeks, he nearly collapsed. Sherlock rested his long fingers on John's hips, steadying him. He slowly pulled his mouth away.  
“Look at me, John.” His words were barely audible, more a rumble in his chest and a burst of breath on John's damp skin than actual speech. Forcing his eyes open and down, John nearly lost himself. Something about the way Sherlock was looking up at him, his eyes wide and darkened, was just too wrong, too right, too sensual for John to take in. They held each other's gaze, never breaking eye contact as Sherlock ran his wet, pink tongue along his swollen bottom lip. A shiver ran down John's spine, sending a twitching, anxious energy straight to his throbbing cock.  
“Sh-Sherlock...please...” He couldn't take it anymore; he needed more contact.  
“Oh? Do you want me to continue?” John could have hit him for the smug look on his face.  
“Fuck...yes...”  
“I'm afraid you'll have to do better than that, John.” Sherlock tutted, pushing his tongue against his upper lip.  
“What do you want me to-”  
Sherlock stood again, bringing his face close, so close, to John's. John choked on his words.  
“I need you, John. We have an experiment to conduct.”  
“Oh G-god yes!” His cock was enclosed in Sherlock's hand. He rested his forehead on the detective's shoulder, gasping.  
“Please...please, Sherlock...I want...”  
“My dear John,” Sherlock rumbled, a feral cat with prey in it's grasp. The movement of his hand stopped. “I shan't continue if you don't articulate properly.” John huffed, trying to remember words. English.  
“Sherlock...I want... let me...”  
Sherlock's hand squeezed for an instant, and then released him. John groaned at the loss of contact.  
“Sherlock, let me come! I want you to make me come!” The words felt spat out, but he had said them. A wicked grin crossed Sherlock's face.  
“As you wish, my dear Watson.”  
“Ah, ah! Sherlock!” Teeth sank into his shoulder just next to the knotted scar. The hand had returned to his prick, moving rhythmically along the shaft. Sherlock kissed a crooked line down from John's neck to his chest. He hovered over the scar, tasting it, before moving to the hard nub of John's nipple.  
“Keep...keep talking, Sherlock.”  
“Hm?” Icy eyes surveyed him. Waiting.  
“You...just keep talking. Your voice...it does things.” John was surprised that he had been able to finish the thought.  
“What do you want me to say?” Sherlock asked into the space between John's pectoral muscle and his arm.  
“Anything.” John moaned. Sherlock quickened his hand's pace and brought the other to grip at the doctor's arse.  
“Did you know,” mumbled Sherlock, nuzzling at John's neck. “that the human tongue consists of eight muscles?” He used several of them to press at the base of John's jaw, eliciting a most delightful noise. “Or that the hydrochloric acid in the human stomach is strong enough to dissolve metal?”  
“Mmmmm...” John groaned. He felt himself getting close. “Oh yeah?” he said. “And what about intestines?”  
“Mmm, intestines are boring.” Sherlock twisted his hand over the head of John's cock. Ohgodohgodohgod! “This, on the other hand, is most interesting.” He dropped to his knees again and guided the organ into his mouth.  
“Sherlock, I'm...Ah!” With a flick of Sherlock's tongue, John was gasping and shaking as the orgasm took him. He sank to the floor, spent. Sherlock gazed at him with what might have been uncertainty, but Sherlock Holmes was never uncertain. John chuckled at the droplet of saliva and semen hanging from Sherlock's lip.  
“Let me help you with that.” He leaned forward to engage in a rather messy kiss._

Anderson's mouth was hanging open. He minimised the document and took another look at the email from Dr. John Watson.

To: and_her_son@gmail.com  
From: doctor_watson@gmail.com  
Subject: You utter bastard :-)  
[attachment: fuckyouandersoniamgoingtomakeyouhurt.doc]

Well, this is what you wanted. I hope it lives up to your expectations. Actually, I should thank you. I had quite a bit of fun writing this atrocity. Sherlock knows about it (do you really think I could hide it from him?). For the record, there are rampant inaccuracies. Excuse the awkward writing (if you had to explain to me what fan-fiction is, you really can't expect me to write it well). Happy reading, you arse!

~JW

P.S. Sherlock says he's sure that you making me write this and then wanting to read it has nothing to do with your latent homosexual tendencies. Nothing at all. ;-)


End file.
